


The Gates of Khanbaliq

by perdiccas



Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Daddy Issues, Enemies to Lovers, Fatherhood, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-06 22:29:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8771884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: Jingim arrives at Karakorum in triumph but the city is deserted. (Picks up where S2 ended.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [idareu2bme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idareu2bme/gifts).



The shadow of the bloodied cross stretches across Karakorum. 

“Kaidu is dead.”

Jingim turns. Byamba stands in the threshold of their father’s quarters, the heavy carpeted entry flap pushed aside. 

He gestures inside the tent. “There was a struggle. He’s been run through with a sword.”

“He and Ahmed are in good company then; it is a fitting traitor’s end.” Jingim narrows his eyes. “And what of the others?” 

Byamba shakes his head. The flap falls closed behind him. “There is neither Mongol nor Christian to be found.”

Jingim looks back at the standing cross. “But they were here.”

“In multitudes,” Byamba agrees. He scrapes his foot through dirt churned by a thousand hooves. 

Jingim clenches his jaw. “Polo.”

“Impossible. We demolished Nayan’s army...”

“Not him!” Jingim spits, his anger lacing every word. “Not the father or the simpering uncle. Marco Polo.”

Byamba looks at him in stunned, disbelieving silence. He starts to protest but Jingim ignores him; Byamba doesn’t know the depths of betrayal to which the Latin is capable. 

Jingim closes his fist around the cross’s mast and with a raging bellow, uproots it from Mongol soil. 

He starts to run. His feet pound on the battered ground. His arm aches where he hefts the Christian symbol like a lance, and with all his strength he hurls the cursed thing, plummeting it far into the depths of the lake. The splash when it hits is as loud as the drums of war and as final as the cracking of the wall of Xiangyang. 

And in its wake, something bobs upon the water’s surface.

Jingim looks closer. 

Not something. Someone.

He cries out but cannot seem to make a sound. He staggers forward wading clumsily into the lake, knee deep already when Byamba dives into the water. 

Byamba reaches her long before Jingim is even halfway there. 

Cradled in his arms, she is smaller, frailer than she ever seemed at Jingim’s side. The sodden blue skirts of her dress trail along the water’s edge.

Byamba lays Kokachin gently on the bank. 

Jingim kneels at her side and brushes the wet hair from her cool, clammy face. A numbness radiates through him; an ache so deep it knocks the breath from his chest. 

Byamba rests a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, brother.”

“Polo will pay.”

Byamba’s grip tightens. In a careful tone he says, “Whatever his crimes this day, Polo will answer to them but do not let your grief misguide you.” He crouches down beside Jingim and gestures gently to Kokachin’s body. “She has no wounds. There is no sign of violence here. Delirium and childbed fever are killers older than Genghis’s Empire itself.”

“And whose fault is that?” Jingim demands. He rounds on Byamba with such unexpected quickness that he knocks him backwards on the ground. The icy nothingness in his veins is now a pulsating, white-hot rage.

Byamba stays passively where he has fallen. “It is no one’s fault, Jingim.”

Jingim laughs scornfully. “Try again. The Latin in this, as in everything, has found a way to make me a fool and ruin all those he touches.”

Byamba stands. “You are wrong.”

“Why?” Jingim scowls at him. “Because you trust him? Because he saved your life when it served his purpose?”

He draws back his fists and punctuates every word with a staccato of punches. Byamba stands, as solid as a tree trunk and just as still – he offers more defence for that infernal round-eye than himself.

“You weren’t there!” Jingim’s voice is hoarse with rage. “You didn’t see them! Master Polo summoned to _my_ wife’s birthing bed!”

“No,” Byamba says finally, when Jingim’s arms grow heavy and his throat is almost too raw to speak. “I was not there and I did not see what it is you saw.” He catches Jingim’s fists in his hands, holding them tight when Jingim tries to pull back. “What I saw that day was the light in your eyes as you held your son. And the smile on your face at the healthy pair of lungs on your daughter. Do not give away to Marco Polo Lady Kokachin’s last gift to you.”

Jingim inhales a deep and broken breath. Whatever reserve of strength he has left slips away from him. They both fall to their knees.

 

Byamba squints at the distant, empty horizon. “They must be headed for Khanbaliq. The Khan would not try to fight a force this large with only half his army to hand.”

Jingim shakes his head. “We came from Khanbaliq. We would have run into them if they were moving that way.”

“Not if they took the high road,” Byamba argues, pointing out the path of the hoof-prints. “The journey is longer but by the time they reach the city, the Latins will be exhausted while the men stationed at Khanbaliq are fresh to fight.”

“We’ll ride across the desert then before the battle is won or lost without us.”

Jingim has no choice but to leave Kokachin behind, her body to the vultures, and her spirit to the Eternal Blue Sky.

 

They return to Khanbaliq as the last of the Karakorum refugees funnel through the gates. The city is in chaos.

“Where are my children?” Jingim demands as soon as they reach the Great Hall.

“Jingim!” the Khan exclaims. Heads turn at their sudden arrival. 

“My children,” he insists again, ignoring the murmuring officials and milling advisors, and Marco Polo insinuated among them. “I wish to see them.”

His mother gestures quickly to a hesitating servant. The servant turns and rushes from the room.

“The Latin army—” Kublai demands impatiently.

“Will be at the gates by nightfall. I know. My children—”

“Are with the wet-nurse,” Chabi interrupts. “The journey has been hard but they are safe.”

A small servants’ door opens and the infants are brought in. One child is still firmly latched to the wet-nurse’s teat. Jingim takes the other, his daughter, in his arms.

“You see.” Chabi smiles softly. “They are strong, like their father and grandfather before them.”

The child gurgles at him sleepily. Where his mother sees their family’s lineage, a mighty past encapsulated in her newborn face, Jingim sees nothing but the present moment. Whatever may have come before, he will keep his children safe this day and every day beyond that. 

“But Jingim,” Chabi starts anxiously, the smile fading from her lips. “Lady Kokachin...”

He looks up from his daughter and into his mother’s eyes. “Is dead.”

Around them people gasp. Kublai shakes his head slowly, sadly. Stricken, Chabi covers her mouth with her hands.

Byamba answers the questions before they come, “We found her floating in the lake at Karakorum.”

It does not escape Jingim’s notice that Marco Polo is the only one with shock written clearly on his face.

“You did not know.”

Marco stares at him blankly. His lips move without making a sound; for a moment, that famous, golden tongue fails him. “No, I did not,” he says at last. And then flatly, “I am sorry for your loss.”

“And I for yours,” Jingim replies snidely, but it is his mother who flinches as if he has slapped her. Marco is too consumed with private grief to register Jingim’s sneer. 

His ignorance of Kokachin’s death is obvious, and as much as Jingim wishes it were otherwise, Marco’s palpable pain has done little to alleviate his own. He turns away from the sight of it, hugging his daughter close once more.

Reluctantly, he lays the infant back in the arms of her nurse, and strokes the cheek of his still suckling son.

“Tell me, nurse, what did Lady Kokachin see fit to name our future Khan?”

“I...” The woman bows her head and hesitates. 

Chabi cuts in sharply, “Jingim.” 

He holds up his hand to silence her. 

“Speak freely please.”

The nursemaid cradles the child tighter to her chest. “I do not know, sire. My lady did not... I did not hear Lady Kokachin speak of her children at all since the birth.”

“She was not well,” Chabi cries in desperate tones. “You must not judge her harshly, Jingim. The pregnancy – it took a terrible toll on her mind. If there had been time... If the Christians had not come...”

“Enough, woman!” Kublai snaps at last. “There will be time for mourning and naming ceremonies when the scourge at our gates has been eradicated.”

“The Khan is right,” Jingim concedes. “For now, the prince and princess are to be protected at all costs. General Qaban?”

The general steps forward and snaps off a sharp salute. “Yes, sir?”

“The nursery will be moved to my father’s innermost chamber.” Kublai grunts in annoyance; Jingim ignores him. “It has the strongest walls in all of Khanbaliq. Station guards at the doors and along the halls. Your finest men only. Your bravest men.”

“It will be done.”

“See to it, then.” Kublai sanctions the order begrudgingly, dismissing the man with an impatient jerk of his chin.

Qaban remains. “My Khan, there is one more thing.”

Kublai throws up his hands in exasperation. “What is it? Spit it out already!”

“In Ahmed’s private chambers... There is something you must see.” 

 

A series of small white boxes is arrayed on Ahmed’s desk. One of Qaban’s men leans over and carefully lifts a lid to reveal what lies inside.

“Black powder,” Jingim breathes.

Collectively, they step back, except for Marco who worms his way closer.

“Be careful,” Byamba says as he slithers past him to kneel, eye-level to the desk. 

“These are the same explosives I saw the Chinese rebels use.”

“Ahmed!” Kublai spits. “He swings from the gates by his neck and still he finds a way to trouble me. Remember this, Jingim, when you are Khan: a false son will show you nothing but false love.”

His words fall heavily; Marco stands, his gaze lowered to the floor. 

Angry, Kublai stalks from the room. Jingim follows, leaving Byamba to mollycoddle the Latin and his hurt feelings.

 

The Christian army has made good time. Jingim and Byamba stand on the parapet with their father, watching the enemy set up camp.

“We attack tonight,” Kublai declares. “They are exhausted from the march and expect to besiege us. We will overwhelm them when they are least prepared.”

Jingim is passing the orders to the guard when Byamba cries out, “What is that?”

He whips his head around. Below them, the Latin strides toward the enemy, a white flag flapping in the wind. The cold sting of betrayal settles in Jingim’s chest once more. Polo may have had nothing to do with Kokachin’s death, but he has clearly chosen sides. And he hasn’t chosen well.

Kublai makes a fist in rage. “What is he doing?” 

Jingim grits his teeth. “Marching to his death.” 

He gestures to an archer beside him but Byamba strikes out. He knocks the archer’s bow and the arrow goes wide. It lands in the ground at the Latin’s feet with a dull, reverberating _thunk_.

Polo twists around to look up at them and it is then that they can see the white box he carries. He shakes his head and continues on his way.

“Can’t you see,” Byamba hisses urgently, “this is no act of treason.”

“Hold,” Jingim orders, stilling the archer as he readies another arrow.

“If not treason then what?” Kublai demands.

“An attempt to stop this war before it begins. It was Marco who warned you of the Latin army’s coming. And who cleared Karakorum before you were routed in your sleep.”

Jingim rolls his eyes. Trust the Latin to spin such a self-aggrandising tale. Trust Byamba to believe it. But to his chagrin, Kublai grunts, acknowledging Byamba’s words as true. 

“Now, I think he means to sow in the Christian camp the same destruction Ahmed reaped in the Southern Song.”

“No,” Jingim breathes in shock. He may have missed taking the Latin’s life by inches himself but what Byamba proposes is beyond comprehension: Marco could not be such a fool as to throw away his life for the uncertain hope of the Khan’s posthumous approval. “This cannot be.”

Jingim meets Byamba’s eyes and sees his own horror mirrored in them. Together they had carried Kokachin’s body from the water; he can no more countenance watching Polo die by his own hand than Jingim can.

“I will stop him.” 

Jingim nods, his face impassive and his chest hurting with every breath.

“No.” Kublai’s rumbling tone brooks no argument.

And yet, Jingim argues. “No?”

“No! Ready the men,” he snaps to the nearest soldier. “We will take this opportunity as it is given to us. We will attack as soon as the black powder has left its mark.”

Jingim stares at his father with unbridled disgust. “What would Genghis say?”

The Khan’s eyes are wild when he roars, “He would say that boy’s life is the least he owes me.”

“No,” Byamba says firmly. “You are wrong. This is duplicitous. Underhanded. It is not the Mongol way.”

“Marco Polo is no Mongol! Let him murder his own people as he pleases.”

Byamba shakes his head and offers no further argument. He turns on his heel, scattering the assembled soldiers aside as he rushes from the city wall. Jingim makes to follow.

“Jingim!”

He sets his jaw. “Father, please. I cannot let my brother fall to the Latin’s folly. You have my word: we will come back to you.”

He is gone too fast to hear if the Khan replies.

 

The tunnel Byamba leads him through emerges beyond the walls. By now, Marco has reached the enemy camp and they take advantage of the distraction his arrival provides. They hurry across a swathe of land that Jingim has known since birth, their bodies held low to the ground.

They’re close enough to have been seen, if the Latins knew where to look when the black powder goes off. 

“No!” Byamba growls. 

Jingim’s ears ring and he swallows down bile.

They throw themselves behind one of the Latin’s supply cart, concealed by its shadow while the round-eyed men around them run about in panic. For the second time in as many days, Jingim’s body feels hollow and heavy with loss.

The explosion is smaller than the fireball that had engulfed Nayan’s army but the aftermath is no less chaotic. Jingim tries to turn his mind to what they must do now: stand and fight when the Khan’s men are upon the Christians, sooner if he and Byamba are discovered where they are. He unsheathes his sword and tests his grip. His anger brews.

“How could you!”

Polo’s voice cuts through chaos; Marco’s confounded bastard father. Jingim leans around the corner of the cart to see Polo’s scowl illuminated by the untamed fires of the explosion, his sword raised above his head. And at his feet, Marco scrambles to defend himself.

“Please, father. I did not mean—”

Jingim gasps, a breath that becomes a war-cry from the very depths of his lungs. The bloodlust of a thousand Mongol generations rushes through him and he charges forward, as if the spirit of Genghis himself spurs him on. 

Jingim’s sword collides with Polo’s as he swings it down.

The old man gasps in surprise. It is an opening, Jingim’s chance. He should carve the treacherous round-eye in two where he stands. But even with Byamba at his back and Marco alive and tangled between his feet, the Christians outnumber them a hundred to one. 

They cannot fight their way through this and come out of it alive. Not when, despite the order, the Khan’s horde has not attacked.

Instead, Jingim leans into his sword, pressing Polo backward. Polo grunts, his wits regained, and he pushes back with equal force.

“Even Abraham was not forced to kill his son.”

Polo’s eyes fly wide and his scowl deepens. Through gritted teeth he spits, “Isaac was not a traitor.”

“Was it not Jesus himself who commanded that you turn the other cheek?” Jingim redoubles his effort, thrusting forward until Polo stumbles back, leaving a foot of breathing room between their upraised swords. “Come now, do not tell me you need a Mongol to explain your holy book to you.”

Polo stares him with narrowed, questioning eyes. His weapon does not falter. 

“You are a Christian?” he asks with no concern spared for his son.

“No.” Jingim laughs derisively. He reaches down and pulls Marco to his feet. “But I am well versed in your philosophies. The Khan welcomes all religions in his lands, as you remember.” 

He snorts. “Yes, for a price.”

“Render unto Caesar what is—”

“Enough! I will not have a heathen twist the holy word against me.”

“Then listen to this: your Crusade will not succeed. And when you fall, my father will burn every church and temple and Christian holy place from here to Rome and all who worship in them. Stop this, pay homage to my father. Grovel for your lives before this affront goes so far it cannot be forgiven.”

Polo bristles. “I propose this instead: tonight you lose your head. A fine homage to your barbarian father, do you not think?” 

“My father has more sons. He has more armies. You are but one force in the heart of an Empire loyal to him.”

“And how many nights will pass before those armies arrive? Enough, I think, that Khanbaliq will have starved, and those armies will swear fealty to the Pope on their arrival.”

“If you think there is a man alive in these lands who would pledge allegiance to a coward, then you have learned nothing travelling the Silk Road. Meet me on the battlefield, Polo. If you wish to rule these lands, then prove your mettle as a warrior.”

With his head held high and his back straight, Jingim lowers his sword.

The Christians make to swarm them but Polo holds up his hand and they still. Slowly, he nods at Jingim, lowering his own weapon in return.

“Go then,” he says gruffly. “We will settle this in the morning. In battle. With honour.”

Jingim does not wait for him to change his mind. He grabs Marco by the arm and pulls him along, shielding him between Byamba’s body and his own.

The elder Polo’s sword comes down again. Their path is blocked.

“The boy remains. He must pay for the blood he has spilt tonight.”

Behind him, Jingim can feel Marco stiffen but he doesn’t look back.

“Take him if you wish.” He steps aside, leaving Marco exposed. “He is of no consequence.”

Polo raises his eyebrows knowingly. “And yet here you are... If his life holds no meaning to the Khanate why do you protect him?”

Jingim huffs a humourless laugh. “You are his father, why do you not?”

 

They walk to the gates of Khanbaliq in single file, conscious of a hundred arrow points aimed at their backs. 

 

“Explain yourselves!” Kublai greets them in a rage. 

But the night has been too long already. Jingim interposes himself between his father and the others.

“Go see the healer, Polo,” he orders defiantly. “Do not repay my father’s clemency by dallying with blood poisoning.”

Byamba steers Marco from the room, and Kublai turns on Jingim.

“Clemency?!” he hisses. “What clemency do you think I will show any of you for disobeying my orders?”

Jingim merely shakes his head. He has lost his taste for arguing with uncompromising men. 

“Get some rest, father,” he says simply. “The fight comes to us at dawn.”

 

Marco stands uninvited at the threshold of Jingim’s chambers, his arms held loosely at his sides. The healers have washed the blood from his face. 

“You were wrong.”

“Excuse me?” Jingim snaps. He spreads his arms to allow the hovering servants to divest him of his muddied clothes. 

“Byamba told me what you thought I was doing. You were wrong. It was no suicide mission.”

Jingim grunts. “Then what?” 

“A targeted strike,” he explains smoothly, moving slowly to the centre of the room. “An army is only as good as its leader. I thought if I could eliminate their commander with a booby trapped peace offering, there would be no battle.”

“Your plan did not come to pass.”

Marco ducks his head apologetically and then raises it again. 

“Why did you come after me? The Khan was happy to leave me to my fate.”

Jingim gestures impatiently at the servants still readying him for bed. They leave.

“My father may deny it but his heart could not take another son’s betrayal.”

Marco inclines his head, considering. “But you said yourself I have no family here.”

“No,” Jingim agrees bitterly. He shucks his open _deel_ to the floor. “And none worth speaking of beyond these city walls. So tell me, Marco,” he stalks forward, barefoot in loose linen trousers, to close the gap between them, “where does that leave you?”

“At the mercy of the Khanate.”

Jingim snorts. “The Khan’s mercy has run out. It is time to finally take your leave.”

Marco stands his ground, undaunted. “No.”

Jingim takes him by the shoulders and shoves him backward. “Whatever affection you hold for him,” he hisses desperately, “my father will see you dead.”

“I know,” Marco replies.

“Then why won’t you leave?”

His kiss when it comes is greedy and eager. His touch is feverish and impatient. Marco’s hands skim over his chest and down his sides in frenzied exploration. 

Jingim is left feeling weak-kneed and off-balance, and he clutches desperately at Marco. The scratch of his scruff against his chin reverberates in nerves much lower on Jingim’s body.

“I want you,” Marco breathes. As if to prove his point, he cups his hand between Jingim’s legs, the soft linen fabric pressed against the weight of him. 

Marco takes the measure of him against his palm. 

Jingim kisses him deeper. He clings to Marco tighter. He groans as he grabs him from behind too and he’s trapped between the devilish, exquisite play of Marco’s hands. “You have me,” he concedes.

With nimble fingers, Marco plucks at the drawstring at Jingim’s waist; he helps Jingim’s trousers down when they catch on his straining manhood. 

Jingim steps out of the pooled fabric and uses the brief respite to turn them both around. He pushes at Marco lightly. Marco must be as dazed as Jingim feels because he stumbles backward before he can catch himself. Jingim grins. 

“Take your clothes off,” he orders. Marco does. With gusto.

He rips his belt from around his waist, pulling his clothes up and down and away, and he sheds it all to the floor under Jingim’s lingering, unwavering gaze. Jingim pushes at him again. This time Marco is ready, and he moves gracefully where Jingim wants him: sprawled on his back on the bed.

Jingim steps to the edge of the bed and stands between Marco’s spread knees. He leans over the length of Marco’s body, reaching for the table beside the bed. When Marco tries to kiss him, he turns his face away.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, straightening up. He holds a glass vial in his hand.

Marco watches him silently as he uncorks it. His mouth is wet and plump from their kisses. His dark eyes follow the swirling pattern of the falling oil when Jingim drizzles it up the length of him.

Marco holds still, perfectly, torturously still, until the moment when he can be still no more. He gasps suddenly and his hips thrust forward, and Marco takes himself in hand. His head lolls back against the blankets, pleasure etched in his features. Jingim is so captured by the sight of him that he splashes oil over the back of Marco’s hand before he can find the wherewithal to draw the vial back.

Jingim crawls up the bed, pressing his body to Marco’s, rutting into the slick mess between Marco’s thighs. He tangles his hands in Marco’s hair and kisses him roughly. He is as fraught with pleasure as Marco is and as unequally unable to temper his lust. Marco opens his hand wider and encloses them both in his grasp. 

It’s hot, unfathomably warm and tight in Marco’s grip. Neither of them last. 

 

“Jingim.”

Chabi’s voice rouses him. He scrubs his hand across his eyes and glances at Marco sprawled on his stomach beside him. His nude back stiffens as he wakes.

“Is it time?” Jingim asks, his voice still gruff from sleep. 

Chabi nods her head gracefully. “The Khan waits on you.”

“He will wait a little longer then.” He throws the blankets off and stands. “I will meet him in due time. Come, Polo, there is work to be done.”

 

Qaban’s men line the hallways exactly as Jingim had instructed. 

In the makeshift nursery, he finds his children swaddled and warm. He hovers near them, wanting to take them in his arms but unwilling to be the one to disturb them. The wet-nurse offers him a comforting smile. “They will be safe, sire. Please do not worry.”

He chuckles ruefully. “I worry about nothing else.”

At his shoulder, Marco murmurs, “You are a good father, Jingim.”

He snorts. “As if either of us knows what that looks like.”

They share a rueful look. 

“Here,” Jingim says, pressing the hilt of his sword to Marco’s hand.

“My prince?”

“Your post is here.”

Marco frowns, his eyebrows pulled tight. “You don’t trust me in battle?”

“No.” Jingim puts his hand on Marco’s shoulder and squeezes. “I trust you with the greatest treasure the Khanate possesses.”

 

“Is it true?” Byamba asks, looking at him sidelong as they walk through the Great Hall. “Is Polo to be a nursemaid now?”

“He guards the royal prince and princess, yes.”

“Is that wise?” He comes to a standstill, forcing Jingim to stop and face him.

“It is you who counselled me to trust him, Byamba.”

“I stand by that, which is why I wonder if he would not be more useful on the battlefield?”

“Marco can no more raise a blade to his father than he can to mine," Jingim says curtly. "Today, one of them must fall. I will not allow Marco to fall at their side.”


End file.
